


Anger Management Over Breakfast

by faith_girl222 (faithgirl)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-16
Updated: 2004-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:03:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4173975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithgirl/pseuds/faith_girl222
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her parents weren't shrinks, they were dentists, and didn't question her judgement. Her mother, however, did include a note, in which she hoped Harry's oral hygiene hadn't suffered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anger Management Over Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eleniangel](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=eleniangel).



> Post-OotP, set part way through sixth year.
> 
> Beta by leelee and helbel85.

Hermione's battery-powered alarm clock worked on Hogwarts' grounds, and went off at 6:30 every morning. She would dress, arrange all of her books and papers for class, and slip down to the great hall all on her own. Lately this had involved her sitting in blissful silence, sipping coffee and poring over a book and sometimes, because no one was around, Dobby would come talk to her.

But now it also meant reading the Self Help book Hermione had got for Harry. She hadn't actually given it to him, yet, but that hardly seemed to pose an obstacle in helping him cope with his grief, yelling and more recent vandalism. Really. She absolutely wouldn't let it stand in the way. Ron wasn't doing anything about it, and he wouldn't, but Hermione felt he was helping in his own way. He kept things as normal as possible for Harry. But the more Harry pretended nothing was wrong, the more he out did Peeves.

So Hermione worried. Got her parents to buy the book for her, something she would have done herself, if Harry hadn't seemed so fine during the summer. After vaguely explaining her friend Harry was having coping problems, they agreed to it. Her parents weren't shrinks, they were dentists, and didn't question her judgement. Her mother, however, did include a note, in which she hoped Harry's oral hygiene hadn't suffered.

The book was fairly detailed: normal grief stages, coping strategies, stories from others who'd dealt with loss, and stories from people who'd been helped by earlier editions of the book. The problem though was that Hermione couldn't find a way to customize it to the situation. Nowhere did it mention anything about Dark Lords or Veils or grieving werewolves.

Hermione had tossed it in the fire in the common room a few weeks ago. The magical flames destroyed it, without giving off fumes as the glossy plastic cover melted. It had seemed it was a dead end.

* * *

Today Hermione bypassed the great hall and trudged up to the library, where Madame Pince was already primly drinking tea. She stood outside the library doors, making sure no part of her tea-drinking self crossed into the domain of sacred texts. Hermione paused at the librarian. Pince knew every book in the library...

"Madame Pince?"

"Yes Miss Granger?"

"Are there wizarding psychology or self-help books?"

"Beside the Phrenology section. I'll be in, in just a moment to check it out for you."

Hermione paused again, wondering at her luck. "Thank you," she said, ducking inside.

The Phrenology section was on the far left, around the curve of the Madame Pince's office, blocked by the front desk, and over shadowed by the Restricted Section. And surely enough, Psychology was beside it. Before it, attached to the curving wall past the desk, was the miniscule self-help section. It had a sign tacked it, reminding students there was no assistance for this section. 

There were leather bound volumes that read like medieval common sense guides. There were huge tomes filled with inspirational saying meant to cause the reader to solve their own problems. It was like a catch all for anything having loosely to do with "self" and "help". A Muggle bookshop would be ashamed. But a Muggle bookshop wouldn't have had books called "Vandalism Makes the Walls Vomit" or "Magic Likes Indoor Voices" or "What to Do When A Dark Lord Kills Your Family". This seemed the best bet, as it was written in a post-Voldemort world with interviews with people who'd survived the war. Hermione grabbed it and a couple other vaguely applicable ones, and moved on to Psychology.

There had to be something that would help with the yelling – it was all the time now. Yesterday, Harry had yelled, "pass the butter" in a nearly silent great hall.

There were a couple volumes dealing with grief and one about signs of mental instability (written by one of the most respected MediWizards at St. Mungo's, Dr. Flemming Brish), which made Hermione nervous, but it listed so many of Harry's behaviors she'd feel remiss to leave it.

She stumbled to the front desk, where Madame Pince seemed to be reading a trashy romance novel, but it was out of sight so fast Hermione couldn't be sure. The books were all carefully packed into an enchanted shoulder bag (a birthday present from Ron, courtesy of Mr. Weasley) and she snuck back to Gryffindor Tower. It was barely eight, and everyone else was still in bed. 

Hermione sat down by the fire and went through the books, carefully composing a list of possible allies for an intervention.

* * *

By the time her alarm went off next morning, Hermione had come to a decision: she would drag Harry down to the empty great hall, and antagonize him. Do something to set him off, so he would burn out and she would have a chance at being listened to.

Hermione arranged the texts she'd be consulting in her shoulder bag, and crept up the spiral staircase to the boys' dorms. The door to the 6th Years' room creaked, but she pressed on. The curtains were open, flooding the room with silvery pre-dawn light.

Thrashing noises came from Harry's bed, where she found him in the throes of a nightmare. The sheets were drenched with sweat, and the creases were a shifting sea as he twisted. Hermione hesitated. But she thought of fevers, and how you have to burn them out to kill the virus. She dropped to the side of the bed. A strand of hair fell across her face, obscuring Harry for a moment, in a hazy wash of glowy brown. She pushed the hair away.

Hermione reached out a hand, carefully sliding it around Harry, the pulled him against her chest. Harry's limbs were still flailing, but she held him close, and muttered the words of a half forgotten song. After a few minutes, Harry quieted. He looked so peaceful when his face went still. Like the open and vulnerable 11-year-old she had met all those years ago - most days it felt like more than six years. There were no worry lines flaring away from him eyes and mouth. Just Harry, features arranged neutrally, without expression. As though his pieces were all laid out, waiting to be put in the right order.

Regret tugged at her, but if she didn't do this know the wounds would fester. The poorly applied bandages needed to be ripped away, so the wound could be cleaned out – or so said the trite metaphor in one of the books. Regardless, it was now or never, and never wouldn't do anyone any good.

She squeezed his shoulder, shook him a bit. He blinked awake, looking owlish as he tried to make sense of the world without his glasses. Hermione slipped them onto his face, and she came into sharp focus.

"Hermione, what are you doing here?" he whispered, clutching the sheet to his chest. But he wasn't yelling, and that was good, because Hermione wasn't keen on dealing with the whole tower if he woke them.

"I want you to come down to breakfast with me, just the two of us."

He stared incredulously at her, but Hermione just handed him is pants and turned away. She could here the crinkle of fabric as he pulled them on. She reached back, and Harry took her hand. The shoulder bag secure in the other, she dragged him toward the door.

Outside, the halls were draughty. The torches shuddered in the breeze. At the beginning of November they'd already had four snows, and by the look of the sky, there would be another before too long.

Hermione walked purposefully, Harry trailing groggily behind, hand still tight in hers. All the paintings were asleep. There was a naughtiness about being up early. At night, the teachers were still around, but at dawn everyone else was tucked into bed, save the house elves.

Hermione's coffee and toast were already at her place at the Gryffindor table, and there was cereal and orange juice next to it. 

Harry was still very confused as she sat down at the long table. Hermione carefully seated herself next to him, watching his movements intently. She wondered if he thought she was expressing some sort of latent romantic feelings and whether he would be relieved when he found out the real reason.

Harry chewed carefully, watching her watch him. Hermione tapped her fingers against the table, tried to shoo her nerves about this all away.

"I want to help you!" Hermione suddenly burst out. She felt stupid as soon as the last word left her mouth. Way to encourage indoor-voice style behavior, yell at him why don't you. Get it together, Granger.

Harry frowned at her, still looking sleepy and bemused. "With what, exactly?"

Hermione took a deep breath. This wasn't how it was meant to go. Why wasn't he yelling? She'd planned for yelling. But she might as well take advantage of it, while it lasted. "The anger and the yelling and the grief and vandalism, mostly."

"What, you want to be angry and yell and be mired in grief, while helping me write rude things on Mrs. Norris with indelible Muggle pen?"

Hermione was taken aback by this cavalier attitude, but she persisted. "No. . . I want to help you deal with these things. Especially the yelling."

"You don't mind the vandalism then?"

"Yes! No! I just mean that those are concentrated outbursts. I often feel like you aren't even aware of when you're yelling. It's all.the.time."

"I'm not yelling now."

"Which is progress, I admit. But, well, I worry about you and . . ."

"Are you coming on to me?"

"What? No . . .well maybe a little. But mostly I'm just worried. I've been doing some reading, psychology stuff, and I just want to make sure you'll be okay."

Harry looked very uncomfortable, and touched at this out pouring of affection. Hermione felt somewhat better. If he could be like normal boy about this, maybe hope wasn't lost.

"And . . . you aren't angry…?"

"With you? No. With Voldemort? The Ministry? Absolutely. Maybe, maybe, I haven't been expressing it well. But if it goes away, what then? How do I fight them? It's so hard to care about anything anymore, and anger is so simple. It doesn't mean anything more. It's . .. safe."

"Oh, Harry." Hermione looked at her hand, pale against the dark wood of the table. She couldn't look him in the face. He seemed so empty, so convinced of this void that controlled him. . .bloody book and it's sodding metaphors. . .

"So, you don't feel anything else?" She hated how hopeful she sounded. Her hormones were not the point. In fact, they had never been, or would never be, the point. War. Harry. Grief. Sirius. These things were the point. Focus, Granger; you don’t care that he looks wonderful chewing on his bottom lip. Absolutely not.

Harry sighed, stared into the pinkish milk. "I'll let you help me, if it'll stop you worrying, but I'm just . . . not ready? I can't do that to myself right now, the admitting and committing part . . ."

Hermione slid one of the books across the table. He took it from her, his fingers brushing against the back of her hand. It was all she could do to keep her whole body from shuddering. He met her gaze, and she didn't regret which agenda she'd followed. The big empty pain seemed to be fighting against a happiness, a faint glow.

"It's good to know you're here, and not going to hurl chess pieces at me when I don't want to play."

"Did Ron really do that? I thought that was Seamus?"

"Definitely Ron. Or at least his chess pieces."

"And that's why you wrote Reds Are Violent across the Quidditch pitch?"

"Indeed."

"You really are a terribly odd one, aren't you Harry?"

"So I hear. Can't see it, myself."

And they sat in silence at the great hall, until all the other students filtered in. Harry didn't yell once, and no one really noticed. Hermione suspected that was the point. Slow change isn't something anyone else is meant to notice. Harry smiled back at her as he left the great hall to put on his robes for the day, and Hermione had to admit it was nice to be someone else who could notice.


End file.
